Symphony N. 104 in D major, Hob. I:104 "London": II. Andante, by Franz Joseph Haydn

Your night of the month...

Amalia's jaw dropped slightly as she understood what he meant. He wanted them to— But they— She was...

Her mind went in every direction, unsure what to say, how to react. She didn't feel ready to share any sort of intimacy with him. She was barely getting over the fact that they were married, and now he wanted them to act on it?

It was what the tradition called for, yes. It was mandatory for newlyweds to follow the ceremony with shared intimacy in the bedroom, so the man could claim his wife's body and innocence. But they were past that, weren't they? They had children together, for heaven's sake. He was her lawfully wedded husband, and she wasn't in a position where she could oppose it, were the marriage consummated or not.

Dismayed, she looked at the man standing before her, unsure what to respond. Still having a hard time believing any of this was true, she observed him. He had removed his necktie, jacket, and waistcoat, and had rolled up his sleeves. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, and she gazed at the triangle of skin exposed there. Her throat dried up at the sight he offered. Truly, he was a magnificent specimen. This man, who could have had any woman here or on the continent, was now tied to her.

Ever since their night together, when they were young and naive, she had never felt the desire to renew the experience. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it – on the contrary. But she had never been attracted to a man like she was to him. Also, having two children had pushed her to conduct herself like a decent woman, so her daughters wouldn't suffer from some bad reputation she could have earned.

However, it was now different. It wouldn't be a sin, not with the bonds of marriage between them. It was their wedding night, and it was their deal, after all. One night a month. One of her choosing.

There would be at least months until anyone received her note. So she wouldn't be able to escape this moment with him. Maybe if she got over with it now, and waited until the last possible moment for their next time, she could avoid more of it. It was the very beginning of June, after all, and if she could pick any day in July, she might as well pick the last one. In two months' time, it was possible that Paul or Sebastian would have delivered her.

All things considered, maybe tonight was a good one to respect her part of the bargain.

If she had insisted so much on their sexual encounters to be so limited, it wasn't because she doubted her enjoyment of it. It was because she worried her heart might fall once more for him, as easily as it had done in the past. And this time, he would break it to the point where it would never recover.

Despite the letter she'd addressed to her brothers, there was still a chance she'd spend the rest of her life by the side of this ridiculously handsome man. But she would never really have him. They would live separate lives together.

He would have mistresses, a plethora of them, and would slowly drift away from her, until he would abandon her in his castle up north, leaving her alone to take care of their children while he'd lead a debauched life in London. Amalia refused to be a brokenhearted, discarded wife, finishing her days wishing she had a better husband.

When she had agreed to his conditions, she'd told herself she had to shut her feelings off when they were to consume their marriage. The idea was to get on with it, and then resume her life as it was. It was to be a matter of the flesh. Feelings and emotions were to be discarded while it happened.

Now that she thought of it, the faster it would be dealt with, the better. If they got it out of the way now, she would have an entire month free of worries. She looked at him, still standing at the door, waiting for her to answer, and transferring his weight from one foot to another, apparently as conflicted as she was.

"Fine," she reluctantly agreed.

He didn't move, and her voice had been so small that she thought he might not have heard. She was about to repeat when he finally nodded and walked to her. Aiden reached her, and slowly, as if she were a frightened doe, he put his hands on her hips. For some reason, it didn't feel as wrong as she thought it would. Not as wrong as when he'd done it, back at the hotel in Bristol.

"Amalia," he called, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "Look at me, love."

She obeyed and tilted her face up, swallowing away the nervous lump in her throat. They were so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath caressing her face. Actually, she could even smell the unmistakable scent of alcohol in the air he breathed out. He had been drinking before coming to her. Was it to give himself the courage to risk her rejection, or was it because he needed it to be intimate with her?

The way he was looking at her was confusing, his eyes reflecting complex thoughts she couldn't fathom. His gaze lingered over her lips for a moment, and after a momentary hesitation, he slowly bent forward to press his mouth on hers. Before he could reach his goal, she turned her head away. It was too intimate. She remembered how good he was at it, and how it had gotten her to forget all her boundaries in the past.

"No kissing," she insisted.

Her decision seemed to annoy him as he straightened up stoically, his expression impassive. The soft man he'd been moments ago was gone. Without a word, he turned her around and proceeded to untie her dress. Biting the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from protesting, she let him, having a hard time ignoring the intense beating of her heart. With shrewd moves, he got rid of her clothes until she was only left with her chemise and stockings. Once more, he turned her around, so she was facing him again, and when he reached for the hem of her shirt, she stopped him.

"I would like to keep it on," she asked. This time he let her know his frustration with a sigh.

With the same abrupt and dry gestures, he undressed. Amalia went to the bed to slip between the covers, her chest so tight she couldn't breathe properly. She tried to focus on anything but the man stripping a few feet away from her. But her eyes wouldn't stop drifting back to him. When he passed his shirt over his head, she all but stared, impressed by his physical perfection. His torso was incredible. Each muscle was easily distinguishable, and every move he made seemed to highlight them. He unbuttoned his pants, and when he pulled them down, Amalia swiftly looked away.

Still broodingly silent, he went to the other side of the bed and slid under the sheets to join her. When his strong hand grabbed her hip and pulled her to him, her entire body tensed. An intense shiver struck her when he pressed her against his naked shape, the warmth of his skin penetrating through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

As much as she didn't want to admit it, her reactions had nothing to do with reluctance or disgust. His touch troubled her, and she was aroused by his closeness. His lips sought hers again, but she twisted her face away, so they landed on her throat. She trembled when the wet, warm brush of his tongue grazed her thin skin, taking in a sharp breath. Her body was awaking slowly to his ministrations, and it would be hard to deny it what it demanded. He stayed there for a while, tasting her while his hands caressed her shapes. Everywhere he touched, it seemed as if he set her skin on fire, leaving incandescent trails on her body with his hands and lips. Oh, God, his mouth was the worst part. Or was it the best?

In seconds, she was feeling hot, too hot for it to be comfortable. Needing to cool down, she was tempted to push the covers away. But she resisted her impulse to do so. She felt as if they were protecting her, keeping her body hidden from his view, making all of this less intimate.

Helpless and silent, she endured the sweet torture he was inflicting on her. Every time he touched her, a wave of pleasure ran through her. She had to focus her hardest not to let it show, holding back her sighs, her shivers, her desire to touch him back. A hand found her breast, and she had to bite her lips not to moan when it tenderly fondled it. He was taking his time, and with each second that passed, Amalia was closer to giving in.

"Do you think you can go faster?" she asked, her voice rougher than she had hoped. "I'm exhausted, and I would like for this to be over."

Stopping the course of his mouth on her shoulder, he moved up to give her an irked glare. She thought he would say something, but instead, he complied and moved to be over her, between her spread thighs. Naively, she thought he would go faster, as she'd asked, but when he bent to kiss one of her breasts, she understood he was far from being done tormenting her. He easily found a nipple under the fabric of her shirt, and closed his mouth around it, biting it gently, just enough to make something throb low in her stomach. The pleasure was so intense that she could barely conceal her moan. With her hands fisted on the covers, she was tense, trying impossibly hard not to encourage him, not to beg for more.

The fabric of her thin chemise became useless, soon wet and sticky, as Aiden's mouth sucked, bit, and licked the taut tip of her mound. When he moved to the second one, she let out a strangled protest, knowing she wouldn't be able to take more of this before bursting.

How could she, for a second, have imagined that she could stay impassive to his touch?

Suppressing her emotions was impossible, and all she did was hold back her reactions. She was feeling everything, and she was failing miserably at not letting this man bewitch her.

Already, she was too far gone, addicted to his touch, cursing the thin veil that separated them. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, wanted to feel this part of him, long and hard, resting firmly against her intimacy, without the barrier of the linen.

When he moved up, his mouth abandoning her nipple to kiss her throat again, she missed the feeling of his weight on her. But when he pulled her shirt up, impatient eagerness took over. His knuckles met the inside of her thigh, and the rush of pleasure from this accidental touch made her tremble and try to clench her legs, to muffle the insistent call of her center. Another quiet moan escaped her, and she bit her lower lip to prevent another one from coming out.

It was pointless to resist. Aiden was too great at this, too gifted for her not to enjoy it, not to feel everything, every emotion. Giving up, she let go of the sheets, eager to touch him, to pull him closer, to hold him tight against her. This part of their deal didn't have to be a chore.

Her hands were barely moving up when he jerked away with a sudden move.

"God damn it!" he shouted. "Am I actually that repugnant to you?" Not waiting for her answer, he quickly jumped out of the bed. Holding the covers tightly against her chest, she stared at him with confusion. "I'm many things, Ama, but I don't abuse unwilling women." He seemed angry, frustrated, and she watched, speechless, as he collected his things on the floor.

Her restraint had been mistaken for unwillingness. Her eyes remained on him as he pulled up his pants without taking the time to fasten the buttons, and slipped his shirt over his head. She wasn't sure if she should say something or leave him with his wrong assumptions. He went to the door, opened it, and stood in front of it for a few seconds.

"Since you are so reluctant, I won't come to you again," he solemnly declared, facing away from her. It was impossible to miss how much it cost him to say these words. He was letting her win, giving her the space he understandably thought she wanted. Before she could protest or explain herself, he got out and slammed the door behind him, making the walls tremble.

Amalia remained on the bed, disoriented, her body tingling with unsatisfied need. Sitting in the middle of the messy covers, she thought of what had just happened. I won't come to you again. She was free from him. If he never asked her to fulfill her marital duties, she would be able to distance herself from him. She wouldn't fall in love with him ever again.

It was exactly what she had wanted, and it should have made her happy.

So why was she so desperately sad?

Aiden knew that four glasses of gin were too much. He knew he shouldn't have drunk more than two, but he couldn't have mustered the strength to go to her otherwise.

Ever since he'd seen her by the water stream in Bristol, he had wondered. He'd wondered what it would be like to kiss her again, to hold her against him, to taste her skin... Despite his attempts to hurt her by pretending what they'd shared was nothing, he knew it was false. There was something there, between them, and abstinence had nothing to do with it.

But now that he was finally holding her, about to possess her, his impatience was slowly turning into frustration. He was trying to be as gentle as he could, to make it as pleasurable as possible for her, but not only wasn't she responsive, she was also queasy.

When he had gotten to her room, he hadn't imagined it would unfold like this. In his mind, she would accept his proposition faster. Instead, it had taken her forever to make a choice, and it was with a reluctant voice that she had agreed to be bedded. Then the no kissing nonsense, and how she insisted on keeping her shirt on. When he had joined her in the bed, she had been tense and squeamish, clearly not wanting to be touched, trying to quicken things...

But he was trying to make it work, for both their sakes. He had every right to be here. She was his, and it was her duty to allow him, her husband, to claim what was lawfully his. Agreeing with her that this would be a monthly occurrence was incredibly generous of him, as none of his peers would have settled for such a deal.

But even if he could spread her legs and take her, which was by any means his right, he couldn't help but want more than that. He wanted her body, but also her soul. What they'd shared years ago was something he wanted to experience again. The communion of their beings. And even if he hadn't wanted her in this way, he would never force a woman, never take her against her will. His wife most of all.

Her soft curves, the flowery smell of her skin, the knowledge that it was her, Amalia, made him want more. He craved all of her. But no matter how hard he tried, she remained tense and shaky, refusing to relax and enjoy it. He'd been with enough women to know he was great at this, so if she'd stop being so stubborn, the experience could be incredibly enjoyable for the both of them.

Intoxicated by her, he tried to conquer her, to overcome her reluctance, to bring out the passion laying within her. Deep down, he knew he should have stopped a while ago. But his inebriated mind was too far gone to think properly.

It was only when he pulled her shirt up that the voice of reason became loud enough to shake some sense into him. She shrugged away from him, trying to close her legs with a whimpering protest.

Fuck, what was he doing? This wasn't right. She didn't want this. He shouldn't force her. Frustrated, anger rose inside of him, despising himself for what he'd done, blaming her for not being more cooperative.

"God damn it! Am I actually that repugnant to you?" he roared at her. Moving away from her soft shape, he gave her the space she so clearly wanted. As fast as he could, he got out of the bed, wanting to be away from her, from this room. He reached for his shirt and gave her a glare filled with reproach. She was sitting in the middle of the messy covers, her watery eyes glimmering in the light of the candles, holding on to the cover. "I'm many things, Ama, but I don't abuse unwilling women."

He wasn't certain if this statement was for himself or for her, but it didn't matter. It was the truth. He hastily slipped on his trousers, then his shirt, and took the rest of his clothes before heading for the door. He hesitated, filled with disgust for what he'd been about to do, and exasperated by the fact that she couldn't just surrender and go along with things.

This couldn't ever happen again. He wasn't this sort of person, and he wouldn't let her change him into a lesser man. She was the mother of his children, his wife. They would spend decades together. He couldn't make her hate him on the very first day of their marriage. He'd preferred them to live in neutral tolerance, rather than unmasked disgust.

"Since you are so reluctant, I won't come to you again," he decided, knowing that anything was better than going through this again. Bitter, he slammed the door behind him and headed to his chambers.

When he reached his room, his frustration hadn't faded off. To hell with this woman! He threw away the things he was still carrying and sat on a couch. He couldn't believe her... She was so stubborn, so irritating. How on earth could he have thought marrying her would be a good idea?

Just a week earlier he was thinking of her as a wicked sorceress who had manipulated the gullible young man he had been. It looked like she was also able to control the man that he was now. What is that about? He wondered. Had she cast some sort of bohemian spell on him? How could he turn so irrational every time it came to her?

Aiden considered going out to change his mind. After all, they were in London, and he knew a plethora of welcoming women who would gladly accept him in their bed, and not act as if they were enduring some unbearable torture.

After giving it a thought, he changed his mind. Tomorrow they had to leave early for their four-day trip back to Langston Manor. The glass and the bottle of gin were still on the table, and he didn't even try to resist their call, pouring himself a generous dose of it.

With a sigh, he leaned back on the couch. For a while, he stayed there, trying to imagine what his disastrous marriage would be like.

I have nothing to say for myself, and that's all I have to say.

This chapter's song is rather romantic, hesitant, and with twists: Symphony N. 104 in D major, Hob. I:104 "London": II. Andante, by Franz Joseph Haydn.